


aftertaste

by drmsqnc



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Open ended
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-23 17:29:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15611346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drmsqnc/pseuds/drmsqnc
Summary: you know.





	aftertaste

There’s a certain linger that trails after the movements of love.

 _“It’ll be alright. I’m right here.”_  

A long look into someone’s eyes. The reluctance to let go of another’s hands. An aftertaste almost of tender longing. 

_“I’m…different when I’m with you.”_

You aren’t an expert in any meaning of the word. But there are certain things that you just  _know._ An understanding coded into your very DNA - some strange strand of translucent knowledge threading throughout every living being. You don’t need to teach a mare how to nurse her young. You don’t need to tell the ever abiding tide to desperately cling to the beach sand in the shallows. The world just  _does._ Lives. 

Loves.

_“Please stay.”_

(There is no aftertaste when he kisses you.)

And yes, he does so ever  _kiss_ you - hungry and desperate like he can’t quite get enough of your taste on his tongue. Other times are slow, unhurried, simmering with a passion that claws breathless whimpers from your throat in the wake of open mouthed heat trailing down your neck. And yet still, there are gentle kisses, the kind that leave you tipping on your toes, teetering near drunkenly to chase for more when he just  _barely_ touches his lips to yours. Perfect.

(Perfect.)

They are achingly  _perfect,_ and you suppose they ultimately reflect the entirety of who Connor truly is. No matter the mood you are in, he always knows just the right way to be perfect. Just the right words to say. Just the right times to hug. Just the right way to (love.)

 _“Never leave my side.”_  

But his fingers don’t lightly trail your skin after an embrace. He doesn’t linger when a kiss is finished, bask in those short, precious seconds to rest his forehead on yours and simply feel your smiles press lightly together. His compliments are glazed flawless on the outside but empty, cold when they fall to your ears, when they don’t match the aloof of his eyes.

_“Can you hear me?”_

Your soul is a wriggling mess inside your bleeding heart. Ugly. Dark. Painting the walls of your chest as black as the web of deceit that he continues to build. Because when he soothes you, his voice is the same timbre as when he promises deviants they will come to no harm. Because when he touches you, his hands are the same that indifferently sentence them to death.

“I love you,” he says softly. Tucks you close. Whispers the very constellations above into your hair.

Hank had needed a son. Connor danced to the tune. His mission would be accomplished at any costs after all, and perhaps having his partners wrapped around his finger only aided the journey. In the end, you were just another chord on the guitar.

You smile sadly.

“I love you too, Connor.”

And maybe the worst part of all is that you mean it. 


End file.
